


The Changeling (Pentina for Harry)

by copper_dust



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autumn, Baby Harry Potter, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Boy-Who-Lived (Harry Potter), Fan Art, Gen, Illustration, Poetry, artwork, pentina, poem, shameless fake woodcut print
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copper_dust/pseuds/copper_dust
Summary: "Before the gravestone, wands cast shooting stars. Dark cloaksand hats merge like spilled ink when they whisper, 'Their boy—he lived!'"A poem and a picture.
Kudos: 4





	The Changeling (Pentina for Harry)

> _He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting up in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: 'To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!_

_Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone,_ Chapter One: "The Boy Who Lived" _._

* * *

Morning falls open, cold and heavy as a stone

autumn smoke, old sweet wrappers, lollipop wands

scattered about the asphalt. Ersatz cobwebs cloak

doorknockers and railings. Here is the boy

in a blanket on a stoop beneath the eaves where mice lived.

Apple cheeks and starry milk spots; now he's lived

his first lonely night, sleeping easy and still as a stone.

He's a wonder, this changeling, a baby boy

blue-lipped from the chill, turning stiff as a wand.

Where are the tiny crocheted mittens, the fuzzy cloak?

You won't see the froth of ghosts that cloak

this street, the multitude of mornings they once lived.

How they brewed coffee with the flick of a wand

Or changed the baby one-handed. Now, they are white stone.

Tall monuments. This morning belongs to the boy.

Door hinges creak and here's the crash of glass; the boy

wakes to a flood of milk as it cloaks

the step like first snow. Glass flakes are sharp stone

under the woman's slipper feet. A dream that lived

in her, surfacing, now vanished by this cruel wand

of fate. And every decrepit tree is a crooked wand

shedding red-gold sparks for her tears, for this boy.

An ugly chord rang out in the house where he lived.

when the staircase collapsed into the piano. Now, clouds cloak

the morning sky, and the baby cries for the cold of the cobblestone.

Before the gravestone, wands cast shooting stars. Dark cloaks

and hats merge like spilled ink when they whisper, 'Their boy—he lived!'


End file.
